Michael 7
by Viskey HeroMouse
Summary: Local police has to deal with a child-porn ring. The Team is searching for a missing boy. Inevitably the two parties meet.
1. Chapter 1

_Please, bear with me with this first part, and read a bit between the lines. ;)_

 _Also, I have no idea, why I have located this in Kipperman's office instead of an interrogation room. It makes absolutely no sense at all. But since it's rather inconsequential to the story, I just let it be._

* * *

"Jus' what the hell ya tryin' ta say?!" Samuel Greenville shouted, as he jumped from his chair.

Lt. Kipperman, head of the Greenrange police department, involuntarily flinched back in his seat. Although he was relatively safe behind his desk, the big man in front of him frightened him. "I... I was just..."

"You askin' stupid questions, while we should be out **there**!" Greenville shouted, pointing outside the window, before he resolved to sit down again. "We oughta go and search Pete. We done no bad things!"

"That's what I'm here to try and find out, Mr. Greenville..."

"I'm tellin' ya! That should be enough!" Greenville got excited again, jumping off his seat, but quickly sitting down again. Obviously he tried to contain himself.

"Mr. Greenville, are you aware of how many times I'm being told exactly that, day in, day out?"

"I'm not lyin'." Greenville seemed to have calmed down a bit. Still the two uniformed officers at the door stood at attention.

"Mr. Greenville. It doesn't matter if I believe you or not. I need evidence." Greenville didn't answer that, so Kipperman dared to go on. "I'm only doing my job here. I need to find out, why you were in that house, and why you were running away when we came."

"I told ya," Greenville said flatly.

"Actually..." Kipperman hesitated for a moment, but it didn't help any, eventually he'd have to ask his questions. "Actually, you haven't told me much, Mr. Greenville. Why were you at Terrace Lane 21?"

"Told ya, we're out ta search information on Pete's whereabouts."

"Pete Hover, yes, I know."

"Then why're ya wastin' our time?" Greenville asked with a threatening undertone and got up from his chair again.

"Mr. Greenville, please, do sit down again." Kipperman cast a worried glance over to the two uniformed officers.

"I'm sittin' down when I like!"

"Mr. Greenville..."

"No, Mister!" Greenville bowed forward, propping himself up on the lieutenant's desk, holding up a warning fist. "You are just here, wastin' my time, tellin' me I'm a bastard who's hurtin' little kids!" The uniformed officers moved closer from the door, but did not yet intervene.

"No, Mr. Greenville... Samuel..." Kipperman pleaded, inwardly cursing the officers for their stupidity. Didn't they see this guy was dangerous? What the fuck was keeping them?!

"It's **Mister** to you!" Greenville barked, holding up his fist a bit higher and closer to Kipperman's face.

"Sorry," Kipperman quickly apologised. "Mr. Greenville, please, do understand that I have to ask those questions."

"All I understand is, you're accusing me of nasty things I wouldn't dream of doin' to my worst enemy." Greenville inched nearer and **then** finally, the two uniformed men came to pull the man back. – Well, they tried to.

They had barely touched him, when Greenville swirled around with a swiftness one wouldn't grant him, considering his bulky and overmuscular body. Before long, one of the two officers was bleeding from his nose, while the other was bleeding from a cut lip. Both would be sporting a black eye soon. Greenville himself seemed unimpressed and unharmed by the blows the policemen delivered. It took two more officers to get Greenville under control and march him off to the holding cells.

Kipperman wiped some cold sweat off his forehead. He had had a few violent creeps in his office over the years, but this one kind of topped them all.

The lieutenant decided for a little break before he'd question the next man. He groaned when his eyes fell upon the remains of what had been his interviewee-chair. Somehow it had gotten smashed to pieces in the fight.

* * *

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Kipperman watched as two uniformed men – others than before – led in Mr. Kurt Miller, a man who, despite his white hair, still looked very agile. "Have a seat," Kipperman said in ways of greeting.

Mr. Miller looked at the old plastic chair that looked out of place in the office. He let his eyes wander until they fell upon a heap of broken wood in a corner. "Ah," he said evenly. "I take it my friend has lost his temper." Only then he sat down, crossed his legs, and carefully placed his hands on his knee.

"Lost his temper?" Kipperman asked. He hardly thought _lost his temper_ was an adequate description for what had happened in his office earlier; _lost it completely_ was more like it.

"Yeah, well... You see, he doesn't really have a good grip on himself, when it comes to children." Seeing how those words could be misunderstood, Miller clarified, "When their welfare is in danger or violated. He is like that. He always becomes angry on their behalf. Unfortunately his Momma never taught him how to contain himself. Would have spared him quite some trouble in his life... But then, I wouldn't want him any different." Miller smiled pleasantly.

Kipperman raised his eyebrows. Miller and Greenville really were contrasting as could be. Hard to believe they should be friends - or even professional partners. On the other hand, opposites attract they say. Kipperman decided to neglect that thought and carry on with his interrogation. "Mr. Miller, we don't have the results of the forensic investigation yet, but I guarantee you, if we find only **one** fingerprint –"

"Oh, but you will," Miller interrupted, his voice still soft and cultivated. "You'll find our fingerprints all over the place. We didn't take precautions, as we didn't think we'd... We didn't think we'd find, what we found." Miller's smooth surface showed a small crack.

That gained him a point with Kipperman, but like hell he'd let that show. "What did you think you'd find?" he asked instead.

"I don't know, really. I didn't expect anything that big, if you understand. I thought we'd find a clue."

"A clue? On Pete Hover?"

"Ah, so he has done something more than just taking your furniture apart." Miller smiled fondly. "But yes, we were looking for clues on Pete," he continued more seriously. "His mother has... hired us to find her son. You'll find him on your list of missing children. Evidently, Maria does not have much faith in the police."

"That's beside the point," Kipperman wiped Miller's last comment aside. He had checked on Pete Hover, he'd been missing for almost three months now, no wonder Maria Hover lost faith. Had it been his own son, Kipperman most likely would have hired somebody as well.

"True," Miller readily agreed.

"So, when you realised what you've found, why not taking precautions then? I would have thought you're a man who knows the ways of the world."

"Thank you for the compliment," Miller answered with a courteous nod, but then turned serious. "We were shocked, to say the least. We didn't want to believe what we saw. I honestly didn't waste a thought on fingerprints and possible incriminating evidence. And neither did my men. We were trying to comprehend what we saw." Miller went silent, Kipperman didn't speak up, he was sure Miller would go on, and he was proven right. "You'll find my fingerprints on the VCR, on the play-button. I needed to see it with my own eyes, to believe it. I needed to make it real." Miller paused again. "Of course, I knew what all those film cases and tapes meant, we all did. But it wasn't real somehow. So I pushed play on the VCR. A mistake, very likely."

Miller had lost his politely smug behaviour by then. He was honest now. Kipperman could see that. Unfortunately his gut-feelings were no criteria, he needed evidence. "And what about the stop-button?" he asked.

"Vernon pushed that one. I ordered him to switch it off."

Kipperman decided not to dwell on that now, but he kept it in mind. "Care to tell me chronologically how it all went?" he asked instead.

"Not at all, Lieutenant." The smooth bastard was back, if only for short. "We entered the house through the backdoor. Admitted, we had to break in, but I thought – and still think – that's a minor price for a possibility to find Pete. I'll gladly be charged for that if it only helps to find him. Anyway. We were entering the building through the backdoor. Chuck Shawland, an admittedly smarmy contact, gave us the address. Chuck really wouldn't be your first choice for evening company, but he's usually well informed. So we were confident to find some clues in that house. It was deserted. We searched the first and second floor, and, when we didn't find anything there, we searched the attic, and last the basement." Miller wiped his face. "And there we found it all. The small studio with the camera, a few tapes... and in the adjacent room..."

"... you found the archive," Kipperman concluded. "What exactly did you touch in the 'studio'?"

"Honestly, I don't quite remember. I might have picked up the odd tape, going through the things in the cupboards and shelves. That's what we all did. We were searching for clues, after all, and that's what you do, when you search for clues."

"Thank you, Mr. Miller, but I know how to do that."

"Of course, you do."

Kipperman shot a quick, sharp look at Miller. He didn't much like the irony in Miller's voice. He was forced to let it drop, though. He couldn't afford to get involved in a discussion about good manners in the middle of an interrogation. "Why did you run if you haven't done anything wrong?" he asked.

"The police's favourite question, isn't it? – No, sorry, how silly of me. That would be, 'What have you done at so-and-so o'clock?'" Miller grinned, challenging.

"Would you mind answering my question?" Kipperman retorted irritably.

"Of course, so sorry." Miller gave him a small smile. "We ran, because we knew you'd connect us to the evidence. We knew you'd take us in, and be it only for interrogation. You'd make us lose time. We didn't want to lose time, because we still have a boy to find." The last words were spoken sharply.

"You expect me to believe this?" Kipperman chose to ignore Miller's tone of voice for the moment.

"I'm not expecting anything of you, Lieutenant. I just tell you the truth."

Kipperman chewed a bit on that. He was pretty sure that Miller was honest. It was one of the things that made him such a good police officer: Knowing how to read people, see if they were telling the truth or not. But with Miller he was not entirely sure, it was more like he just had a hunch. Miller clearly was a man who was used to being the superior – military background, maybe. Miller was in control of himself and the situation; even the one he was presently in. Kipperman was sure Miller would pass just any lie detector test with a smile and a nod, while telling you the sky was green and grass was blue.

"What did you touch in the archive, except the play-button on the VCR?" Kipperman finally asked, because he still had a job to do, and was a little at a loss of how to proceed with Miller.

"A few of the film cases. But other than that, I pretty much kept my hands to myself in there."

Lt. Kipperman decided, that it was time to break off the interview at that point.

* * *

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Vernon Capote was next. He was a tall man, good looking, but with a doubtful taste in clothing, which considerably harmed his appearance. He instantly looked over to the corner, where the remains of Kipperman's other chair still lay. Obviously Miller had told Capote about the incident. Capote grinned briefly. Strangely enough, neither he nor Miller seemed to mind Greenville's violence, quite to the contrary, they seemed to be fond of it.

"Mr. Capote..." Kipperman indicated the plastic chair at the other side of his desk.

"Lieutenant Kipperman," Capote answered and flopped down into the old plastic chair. "So, how can I help you?"

"By telling me what happened today."

"Well, Miller's already done that, hasn't he?" Capote scratched his head absently, readjusting his baseball cap.

"You'll understand that I'd like to hear your version of the story as well."

"Sure, how silly of me." Capote straightened up in his seat. "Well, we went to that house in Terrace Lane. – But, of course, you know that."

"How did you get in?" Kipperman interrupted.

"Well, what d'ya think? We opened the door."

"Which one?"

"The backdoor. We didn't want too many people seeing us there, could have drawn unwanted attention. Apparently we haven't been careful enough. Unfortunate screw-up."

Kipperman frowned mentally. He started wondering how this group got anything done at all. They appeared to be more or less dysfunctional each on their own. But they were also so different from each other, it seemed impossible they got a tight enough grip on themselves to actually overcome their respective antics, and work together. "And the door opened, just like that?" Kipperman asked, keeping those thoughts to himself.

"Yes," Capote declared matter-of-factly and with big, innocent eyes.

Kipperman just motioned for Capote to go on. He would confront Capote with the break-in, Miller had confessed to, later.

"Well, so we were inside. We searched the first floor, me 'n the Big Guy - uhm, Greenville – while Miller and Keith searched the second floor. Then me and Miller searched the attic. I've no idea what Keith and the Big Guy were doing then. Probably chasing all the bunnies away, cause there weren't any left when I returned."

Kipperman just looked. Bunnies?!

"However, when we returned from the attic, they were waiting for us at the door leading down to the basement." Capote's voice became dead serious. "We went down. First we came to a typical basement. You know, stored fruits, cans and stuff. But then..." Capote looked down at his hands. "It looked like a studio. There was a camera on a tripod, two other cameras on a shelf left of the entrance. There were a few tapes as well, a bed, a sofa... an assembly of odd and shabby furniture." Capote looked up. The glint that had been in his eyes now completely vanished from his eyes.

"You know the surroundings quite well," Kipperman stated, feeling uneasy all of a sudden.

"I've got a good mind," Capote answered. "We walked in, looked around, seeing if there were any clues on Pete." Capote blinked solemnly, while he remembered. "We didn't find anything, so we left the room and walked into the next one." Capote fell silent, captured by the memory. "We knew what that studio meant, we just refused to believe."

Kipperman found it interesting, how Capote – like Miller – spoke for all of them, but he didn't interrupt for fear of cutting off something important.

"In the other room we found... all those tapes and rolls of film. Hundreds of them." A shudder went through Capote. "Every single film an act of... of violence. Every film standing for a lost and broken soul. All those kids..."

"Yet you took some of them with you..." Kipperman interrupted lowly, and reached under his desk to pull a film case which he put on the desktop. The plastic, it was wrapped in, rustled overly loudly in the silence of the office. Kipperman meaningfully looked at Capote, waiting for an explanation.

"Yes... Yes I did." Capote's eyes flickered from Kipperman over to the case on the desk, than aimlessly around the room.

"Why? What's so terribly important about... Michael 7?" Kipperman read off the case.

"I..." Capote didn't go on. Kipperman could see he was holding back something, but couldn't imagine what. Like Miller and Greenville he didn't appear like he got any pleasure out of child abuse.

"Mr. Capote, why did you take those films with you? What did you want to do with them?" Kipperman asked intensely.

"I wanted to destroy them. They shouldn't be there. – Not that any of the films should be there to begin with, but... but... No, they shouldn't be there." Capote was reaching out and started fidgeting with the edge of Kipperman's desk. "I..." he went on, struggling with his words, "I... I guess... I wanted to take him away from there, I wanted to... like... like I could make it undone when I destroyed the films, you know?" Again, his eyes flickered through the room as if he were looking for something. However, his gaze was drawn back to the case on the lieutenant's desk again and again.

Capote had given him the truth, Kipperman could tell. But Capote's answer to Kipperman's next question was a lie. "Why him, of all the thousands?"

"Because he was the one, whose film had been copied last. It was still in the projector."

"Why did you really select Michael's films?" Kipperman asked sympathetically. Capote had a hard time as it was, Kipperman didn't want to add to this by being an insensitive asshole, which sometimes helped things along, but wouldn't this time.

"I told you," Capote stubbornly insisted, and meanwhile it was quite obvious, that he wished to be anywhere but in Kipperman's office. His eyes searched the office once more. His eyes lingered on the uniformed men at the door for a second, but there was no way of telling if he even recognised them as human.

The lieutenant sighed. A change of subject might be a good idea. "Why did you run away, when you heard us coming?"

"You might have been the bad guys." Capote's composure steered back to normal immediately, and his eyes snapped back to the lieutenant when he spoke.

"Mr. Miller gave me another story," Kipperman kept this line up, it seemed to help Capote staying focused.

"Yeah," The idea of a smile returned to Capote's face. "But even if it had been the good guys, we didn't want to run into you. You cost us precious time." Capote looked around the room with worry suddenly written all over his face. "Where's Billy?" he asked, "Where've you put Billy?"

"Who?"

"My dog... Billy? Billy!"

Kipperman blinked a few times in astonishment, than opened them wide, when Capote started stroking air and soothingly murmured, "Yeah, here you are... Good boy... Now what did I tell you about just vanishing from my sight, eh? That's right, big boy, I don't like it."

Capote still spoke to himself – or whatever he thought he was talking to – when the uniformed men led him out of Kipperman's office. He'd bend down occasionally, patting air like he'd pat a dog walking by his side.

Kipperman shook his head in disbelief. How could this group get anything done? He pondered grabbing a quick lunch, before starting to interrogate the last man of the four: Keith Brown.

* * *

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

_And now, to complete the set ..._

* * *

Brown was already sitting in his chair, displaying immense disinterest as he stared at the edge of the desk before him, when Kipperman returned to his office. He'd had a quick hotdog from the stand opposite of the police station.

"Ah, Mr. Brown," Kipperman greeted jovially, nodding at the obligatory uniformed policemen standing watch at his door.

"Lieutenant Kipperman," Brown answered just as jovially, slowly lifting his eyes to meet with the lieutenant's.

"Now, what were you doing in that house?" Kipperman decided to go straight into business.

"You mean just me or all four of us?" Brown asked back.

"Start with the four of you, before we go into the specific." Kipperman made himself comfortable in his chair, wishing he'd gotten himself something different for lunch, something a little closer to real food.

Brown straightened up in his seat a bit, before he started. "We were looking for clues on Pete Hover. He's a five year old boy, gone missing eleven weeks ago. His mother, Maria, evidently lost patience with the police and their abilities. So she hired us last week. But I guess, you already knew that."

Kipperman heard that with great interest. With all the things he had learned about Pete in the meantime, this was the first time he heard when Maria Hover had hired this bunch. "You wanna tell me, you've gotten this far in only one week?"

Brown looked up with mild surprise and unmistakable satisfaction. "Hm?" He tilted his head slightly to the side. "What can I say, Lieutenant, we're good at what we do."

Kipperman let it pass unwillingly. He didn't like the self-satisfied way Brown had said it, but how long they had been on the case wasn't of any importance at the moment. "Go on," he said between gritted teeth.

"Well, Chuck Shawland gave us a hint. We might find something at Terrace Lane 21, he'd said. We went there immediately. – Time's precious, you know. – We arrived at the house, it was deserted. Both doors were locked, as were the windows. We decided to go in through the back door, much to Capote's amusement." Brown's smile turned fond and genuine for just a moment.

"How did you open that door?" Kipperman asked underhandedly.

Brown's grin turned ironic and condescending again. "Well, how do you open a door, Lieutenant? I pushed the handle."

"I thought it was locked... Both doors were locked, you just said so yourself."

"Yeah, well they were... sort of." Brown shrugged it off.

"So, how exactly did you get the door open?"

Brown shrugged again, but at least his damn smug smile was gone. "Well... I... Miller told me to open it, so I did."

"Just like that?" Kipperman asked. He was already growing tired of Brown's attitude.

"Yes," his interviewee answered.

"Oh, yes?" It became increasingly difficult for Kipperman to keep his patience. This day had been rough on him. A sickening crime scene, aviolent creep, an old smartass and a loony. And to round it all up, he was now presented with an arrogant sleeze-ball. "Listen, **Mister** Brown, you'll better give me the truth now, or –"

"Or what?" Brown interrupted. "You gonna arrest me?" That damn arrogant grin was returning to his face.

"Your friend – and boss, as I gather it – told me you had to break in."

"He did?" Brown tilted his head again, at least he seemed to be really surprised. But he soon got himself back under control, and in his usual tone he said, "Well, if he told you... Yeah, I had to pick the lock..."

"Oh yes?!" Kipperman exploded. He could have contained his irritation, but he hoped that a little rage would drill a hole into this infuratingly smooth surface of Keith Brown.

But Brown was not impressed. "Yes. It was an old lock... No big deal."

Kipperman let out a frustrated sound. He felt like he could use a few hours off. His day so far had been draining, and it was only just noon. He rubbed his temples.

"I know, I know, it's not legal," Brown added with false remorse in his voice, "but sue me." He stopped at his own words and chuckled lowly. "I guess, that's just what's gonna happen, right? I'll be charged for that?"

"Eventually, but it might turn out to be the least of your concerns." Kipperman felt an unfair satisfaction with those words, because even if he didn't like this man, like with the other three, he didn't think he actually had anything to do with the child porn ring; other than stumbling over it in search of a missing boy. But really, this day was slowly killing him. He'd already woken up with a headache, and it had only gone downhill from there.

Brown's face fell, total seriousness and something Kipperman couldn't name showed for a second.

"Go on with your story, Mr. Brown," Kipperman quickly asked, he didn't want to give Brown a chance to compose himself. Being serious, he was easier to handle than otherwise.

"So anyway, we were inside the building." Brown proved that he didn't need any time to compose himself. He was back to where he'd started. Emotionally detached, he reported the events of the morning. "Me and Miller went to search the second floor. There was little of significance. Just rooms like you'd find them in any house. Vernon came upstairs to report the first floor was clear, bearing no clues or anything. Miller volunteered him to accompany him to the attic. While they searched that, I went downstairs. I did look around a little more. They might have overlooked something."

"And, did they?"

"No, of course not."

Kipperman hid his confusion over this reply. "You went down to the basement," he said instead. "Why did you wait for the other two to come back? Why not just go down there with Greenville?"

Brown shrugged, indifferent. "We knew if there was something, it would have to be down there." He tugged at the sleeves of his shirt. "I didn't want to go down there on my own."

Kipperman slammed his flat hand down on his desk in calculated frustration. "You had Greenville with you, for Christ's sake! Really, if I needed someone to protect me, he'd probably be on the top of my list."

Brown had jumped a little at the sudden, physical outburst, and had closed his eyes. He reopened them now, shrugging once more. "Well, maybe. I still wanted them all with me. I had a really bad feeling."

Kipperman believed him. He thought he was finally getting somewhere with Brown. Then, to his dismay, the interrogation was interrupted by an officer, who brought in a file. Kipperman took a moment to look through it.

"Mr. Brown, what did you touch down in the basement?" he asked, when he had picked the most important information from the preliminary forensic report, the officer had brought him.

"Nothing."

"Well, that's not what your fingerprints say. According to this," Kipperman held up the report, "you had your hands on various of the film cases. Namely, the empty one next to the projector, and five others, all labelled 'Michael 7'. Care to explain yourself?"

"I..." Brown's voice failed him. "I... d-didn't... I-I don't remem-member..."

Kipperman almost dropped his jaw, but quickly recovered. "That's bullshit!" he shouted. One, because he hated it when people outright lied to him. Two, because it felt damn good to shout after this day. Three, and most importantly, because it seemed to be the way to get through to Brown. "Come on out with the truth, already! You've been telling me a whole lot of shit so far! I want the truth now!"

"I was not lying!" Brown shouted too, but at least he, unlike Greenville, stayed seated.

"No?!"

"Not much, anyway," Brown conceded in a calmer voice. He tried to put a smile on his face again, but this time he failed.

"You've been lying to me in every relevant point so far. So why the hell have you taken those cases?" Kipperman waved the report at Brown.

"I don't know!" Brown shouted.

"Bullshit!" Kipperman bellowed one of his favourite words at Brown. He reached under his desk and put the film-case back on his desk. He had stored it away before he had left for lunch. He thought it would be interesting to see Brown's reaction to it. With a loud bang he slammed it on his desk top, hoping he hadn't dented it.

Like before Brown started at the noise. "I-I-I d-don't remember, I t-told you."

"What?!" Kipperman snapped. He didn't believe Brown. And he was growing tired of this game.

"I..."

"The truth this time, or I swear, police officer or not, I punch you in your pretty little face till not even your mommy recognises you anymore!"

"I... I just didn't want them there," Brown finally answered the question.

Practically the same thing Vernon Capote had said. "Why not? Why those of all the hundreds? What makes those films so different from the others that you and Capote started picking them out?"

"Michael Seven shouldn't be there," Brown said. He gathered his wits for a second before he went on, "Michael Seven is the one who was on the projector. The ones who did all this, they are copying the old films to video, so they can make even more money. – Never out of fashion, right?" An awful grin played on Brown's lips, but only for a second. "I bet even the old black-and-whites sell like hell. I... I looked at the case next to the projector. It said part two on the label, so there had to be a part one. I was looking for it. What I found... The cases were in chronological order. It wasn't hard to find part one. But... But... But there..." Brown swallowed, before he finished, "there was a good dozen of them."

"Actually, there are twenty-two of Michael 7."

"T-Twen...ty... t-two?" Brown looked at Kipperman in shock.

Kipperman marvelled a moment at those big blue eyes, before he nodded, and read off a sheet, "There are seven from '53, eleven from '54, and 4 from '55. Poor boy's seen a lot of shit."

"Yeah..." Brown looked disgusted.

Kipperman was silent for a moment. Maybe he had to revise his verdict on Brown. Not such an asshole after all. "You said, he shouldn't be there. Why shouldn't he be there?"

"He... He... He wouldn't want anyone to find him there."

"Well, as it turned out, he was found. Why do you think he wouldn't want to be found there?"

"He... Aw, man..." Brown wiped his face, rubbed his eyes, as if suddenly he were stone-tired. He bent forward, propping his elbows on his knees and kept his face hidden in his hands.

"Mr. Brown? Any of those kids would probably be highly ashamed, if their past got revealed, but... what's so different about Michael?"

"Michael **Seven** ," Brown stressed, his voice a little muffled.

"Whatever. Why him? Because his film was in the projector? I don't buy that one." Kipperman knew it was a fairly plausible explanation, but he still didn't believe it. His guts told him, that it was not the reason.

Brown sighed exasperated. "God, you're a pest."

"Insult of a police officer?" Kipperman noticed with surprise that his voice actually sounded jokingly. "Why Michael Seven?"

"I guess, he'd just not want them to find him in there."

"Who?"

Brown looked up, confused. "What?"

"Who shouldn't find Michael in there?"

"Th-th-the... His... his family."

"Why would they? Do you know his family? Do you know Michael Seven?"

For a long time Brown just looked, then he almost imperceptibly nodded.

"Do your friends know him as well?"

After some hesitation Brown nodded again. "But I'm not sure they recognized him."

"And what if they did? Would they lie for his sake?"

"In a heartbeat," Brown answered with absolute conviction and not even a hint of hesitation.

Kipperman looked at Brown intensely. "Are they lying for his sake?"

"Since you're asking, I guess they are." A pause, then Brown jumped up, trying to run, but he was stopped by the uniformed cops at the door. Brown twisted in their hold for a moment, before he just turned, trying to avoid vomiting on their uniforms. "I'm sorry," he weakly apologized afterwards. "It... it gets to me." Slowly he returned to his seat, and accepted a handkerchief from Kipperman to wipe his mouth.

"I can see that." Kipperman nodded at one of the cops to take care of the little mess Brown had caused. It seemed this wasn't the first time he'd thrown up. So the half digested breakfast, they'd found just outside the archive, most likely had been Brown's. Kipperman took another look into his report, to distract himself. Brown had gained some points just then. Kipperman actually started to like him. "Do you have any idea why Mr. Capote might have pushed the rewind-button on the VCR?" he asked casually.

"He did?!" Panic carried in the voice.

"Yes. We have his prints on the play-, stop- and rewind-button. Any ideas?"

"No... no..."

"Mr. Brown, why did he push that button? Does he like watching filth like that?"

"NO! Murdock **hates** it!" Brown burst out. "We all do! Maybe he just missed the stop-button!"

"Who is Murdock?"

"Mur..." Trepidation was written all across Brown's face. "He... he... It's just a nickname..."

"Sure, just a nickname. After all, Murdock is so close to Vernon... or Capote."

"It's just names. Names don't necessarily mean anything."

"Well, that's true, I guess." Kipperman picked up the case that was still lying on his desk. He turned it around so Brown could read the label through the plastic. "Michael 7, May 20th, 1954 / Vol. 2" it said. "You picked up this case." It was not even a question.

"Apparently you know already." Brown sounded tired and sulky.

"Why?"

"I was curious?"

"Curious..." – Yeah, sure. "And then?"

"Miller turned on the VCR. I saw, who Michael Seven was... I went to search all his films and..." Brown spoke softly and slowly, like he was only half awake.

"Did you want to destroy them?"

"I guess. I don't know. Maybe. First of all, I wanted to have them out of there..."

"Mr. Brown, why did you select them out?"

"I wanted... I wanted... I was stupid. They would have never... maybe Murdock would've... but... I don't know, I didn't want them to see how many there were." Brown answered miserably.

"You knew how many you'd find?" Kipperman adjusted to Brown's state of mind and asked softly, gently. Shouting at him had worked before. Now it would only push him over the edge and make all further questioning a futile attempt. He knew how to play people's emotions.

"Not the exact number."

"How many did you think there'd be?"

"I don't know... Really, I don't know. I just knew there had to be more than just part one and two." Brown paused, wiping his face. "I-I-I didn't know how many... Just... too many..." He sniffed. "I didn't want them to see me there."

Kipperman bit the insides of his mouth to keep quiet. It seemed that Brown hadn't even noticed the slip. Kipperman desperately wished he had a screenshot from Michael 7 at hand so he could compare the boy from over 30 years ago with the man sitting in front of him. But... hang on...

"Mr. Brown... when's your birthday?"

"What? What's that got to do with anything?" Some life was coming back to Brown's voice.

"Just answer my question, will you?"

"You've got it all in your papers. Don't be lazy, look it up."

Kipperman did. "Keith Robert Brown, date of birth: November 11th, 1954. This is your birthday, Mr. Brown?" Kipperman held up the copy of Brown's driver's license, pointing at the date.

"What?!" Brown was getting irritated. The raw emotions from just before gone without a trace.

Kipperman didn't say any more. If Keith Robert Brown was Michael Seven, the date of birth couldn't be correct. If the date of birth was correct, Keith Robert Brown couldn't be Michael Seven.

Kipperman decided to check on Brown's identity before he carried on with his interrogation. As a matter of fact, the fingerprints should be identified by now. Kipperman watched Brown being led away, then picked up his phone.

* * *

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

_Now, with the "introductions" (so to speak) behind us, we can finally move into the story. I hope you like what I came up with.  
_

* * *

Hannibal watched seemingly unmoved, as they brought Face back. He looked terrible. He did his best to cover up, but Hannibal could see through the thin surface. It must be torture for Face. To be one of those kids. To not let it be known, their covers would blow if he did. – Not that Hannibal very much cared for their covers at the moment. If the police found out about their true identity and informed the MP, so be it. They had slipped from the MP so often, Hannibal had lost count a long time ago.

Hannibal was worried about Face, though. He knew Face was desperately trying to keep it together, to keep control. For somebody appearing so easy and carefree, Face was quite the control-freak. Hannibal couldn't even begin to imagine what it must be like, being practically accused of child abuse when you've been an abused child yourself.

"How was it?" Hannibal asked, somewhat lamely, but his eloquence failed him at the moment.

"Well, what do you think?" Face answered tiredly. "He asked a lot of questions." The door to the holding cell was unlocked, and Face was shoved inside, not roughly, but not exactly gently either.

Hannibal chided himself for that stupid question. He watched Face walk over to Murdock, who tranquilly stroked Billy. "Here," Face said, his hand outstretched. "Billy forgot his toy in Kipperman's office."

Murdock reached to take it. "Thanks, muchacho," he said, returning to stroking Billy.

Hannibal had to sit down, all wind blown from him. He slowly turned to face BA, who had had to sit down, too. He didn't have the strength anymore to even look dismayed. BA turned to face Hannibal. They both knew they were in deep shit now. Face always played along with Murdock's delusions, true. But this was the first time Face brought it up without any prompting. Hannibal wasn't quite sure what it meant, but it didn't augur well.

After a minute, Hannibal forced himself to get up and walk over to Face and Murdock. He stopped before them. He knew there was no time to beat about the bush now. "Face, do you think you can relieve the officer on duty of his keys?" He spoke softly, more hesitantly than he liked.

"Who do you suddenly think I am?" Face asked back harshly.

Hannibal didn't answer this. Instead he said, "Just do it, kid."

"Don't I always?" Face answered irritably.

Hannibal went back to his seat, and watched Face first composing himself, then getting into character. After a minute he got up, and slowly walked over to the door of the holding cell where an officer stood guard, albeit quite bored. "Hey, officer," Face spoke up.

"Yes?" The officer took a step back and moved his hand in the direction of his nightstick.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, cool down, man," Face soothed, making becalming gestures with his hands. "All I wanted was ask if it's possible to get an aspirin and a cup of water."

"Aspirin?" The officer looked suspicious.

"Yeah, like for headaches, you know? Look, sir, it's a little noisy in here, the air's not the best, and I've not had the best of days so far. You're not gonna let me suffer like that, are you?" Face let some pain seep into his voice, and just enough charm so the officer would feel comfortable without even realising why.

"You know, I can't leave here," the officer said, a lot friendlier than only a second ago.

"Yeah, sure. But you see, that headache's really killing me," Face said, his tone also calm, but with increased pain.

"Uhm..." The officer looked down the hall for a moment, still not quite decided how to proceed from there.

"Hey, what's it gonna cost you?" Face asked, a little wearily. "All I'm asking for is you getting me one of those pills. It's not the world, I'm asking."

"Well, Mister..."

"Please?" Face begged.

"Hank?!" The officer shouted down the corridor to alert his colleague. That was Face's cue. He swiftly reached through the bars of the cell and unhooked the cop's key-ring. Without jingling the keys he pulled back his hand and stuffed the ring into his pocket. A minute later he got the aspirin and a papercup of water. Face thanked the two officers involved and gladly took the pill.

Hannibal watched with dismay as Face actually swallowed the pill. Another thing that didn't bode well. Face normally wouldn't take medicine while on a job, not even something as minor as an aspirin. Hannibal got up, his cue. "Hey, officer!"

"What?" The cop sounded not even half as friendly as he had when talking with Face.

"I've seen you getting some water for my friend here..."

"I'm not a waiter!" The cop snapped.

Hannibal leaned against the bars of the holding cell, drawing the cop's attention to him, away from the door.

"Hey, I've done nothing wrong!" Hannibal protested, "And I'm losing my patience here! I've been napped, interrogated and locked up! I'm a man with a business! I'll sue you, you hear me? - Of course, I **could** be placated by a simple cup of coffee. Or just..."

"Shut up, dude," the officer snarled.

"Hey!" Hannibal straightened up with rousing indignation. "What's your name, officer? Be sure I'll remember it, and there'll be a **personal** lawsuit coming right **your** way!"

"I certainly won't..." The officer halted, as he felt something pressed into his back.

"Tell you what," Hannibal said with a sudden grin, "you let me and my friends go, and we forget all about that lawsuit. Deal?"

The cop turned around in slow motion to look at an apoligetically smiling Face.

"What... what..." The officer tried to get out a question.

"What we are doing?" Hannibal helped out, walking out the cell-door, Murdock was holding open for him. "Well, we don't have time to sit around here all day enjoying your hospitality. – Sergeant, make sure our friend doesn't spoil the game."

BA walked over to the guard, no-nonsens like, and quickly had the man gagged and tied up.

Face took the bullets out of the police officer's gun before he pushed it back into his holster. "I am sorry", he said gently. "And thank you for the aspirin, I really needed it. I owe you, officer. Still, I have to go. You'll understand."

Hannibal clapped Face on the shoulder. "Time to leave."

* * *

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

_It's official now. I can totally be bribed with reviews. Didn't know I am that cheap... Anyway, dear guest, here goes. Probably not the continuation you expected, but we'll get back to the Team soon, promise._

* * *

"Lieutenant?"

Kipperman looked up, trying to reign in his impatience.

Sgt. Pearsh stood in his door. "We got the info on Brown..."

"And?" Kipperman was curious to say the least. For some reason the fingerprints had not been properly processed until he had asked for Brown's identity to be checked. The techs had only compared the men's prints against those lifted from the scene, never doubting their identity or checking for previous arrests or open warrants. Which strictly speaking wasn't their job, so the screw-up was in his own department. Damn it.

"There's no such man," Pearsh answered, handing his Lieutenant a folder. "But... you'll like this."

Kipperman opened the folder. Keith Brown's face smiled at him. "Templeton Peck?" Kipperman read off the sheet with incredulity. What fancy name was that?!

Pearsh nodded. "He's wanted by the Military Police. Hence the false ID," he offered.

Kipperman nodded his acknowledgement, his eyes never leaving the file. He quickly leafed through the pages, and found "Miller" and "Greenville" in there as well. "What about Capote?" he asked, looking up.

"Uhm, does not exist, and his fingerprints don't seem to be listed."

"How about under the name of Murdock?"

"That search is still running. But you know, with just a last name, different spellings..."

"Yeah, yeah," Kipperman cut off his sergeant. He sighed exasperatedly. "Have you informed this Colonel - uhm - Decker already?" he asked, picking the name out of the file.

Pearsh nodded. "He said he'll be here within the hour. Also, he suggested to put them all under close observation. Said something about them being escape-artists."

"Did he now?" Kipperman asked wearily. He just wanted this day to end. Thankfully Pearsh had realised he didn't expect an answer on that one, and kept silent. "Okay, Pearsh, take care of that close observation..."

"Yes, Sir." Pearsh nodded once more and left. Kipperman dropped the file on his desk and stared at the picture of Templeton Peck. He picked up his phone. "Kipperman here, how long till I get that screenshot? - - - Well, hurry up, then! - - Yeah, you too." He dropped the receiver and returned to the file. Apparently, when Brown – no, **Peck** – had claimed he'd opened the door just like that, he had not been exaggerating. According to the file he was an expert on locks and the likes.

Kipperman skipped the rest of the information and looked at Peck's date of birth: February 1st, 1950. It worked out. That way it worked out. God... Kipperman wiped his face. If Peck was Michael, he had been only three years old when the nightmare had started.

* * *

"WHAT?!" Kipperman shouted at Pearsh.

"Uhm... they... they..." Pearsh stammered.

"Do us all a favour and spare me the rest... Escape artists... great. This Colonel Decker will just love it."

"I will love what?" A tall man in fatigues entered the office. Although _enter_ was hardly the word, _stormed in_ was more like it.

"Uhm... uh..." Pearsh stammered again.

"Just go ahead, Pearsh, tell him." Kipperman didn't feel the least bit sorry for throwing Pearsh to the Colonel. It was – bottom line – not Pearsh's fault, but at this point Kipperman just didn't care anymore.

"I understand," Colonel Decker just said, before Pearsh could say anything. Suddenly the Colonel looked like all energy was drained from him. "They are gone, aren't they?"

"Yes... Sir. About an hour ago..."

"You said, there were four men?" Decker asked, a desperte hope stealing into his voice.

"Yes. He was using the alias of Vernon Capote, but one of the others, Peck, slipped and referred to him as Murdock twice. No first name, I'm afraid," Kipperman informed. "We have a search running."

"That won't be necessary, I believe," Colonel Decker said with a thin smile spreading on his face. "A tall, slender man, thinning, brown hair, crazy?" Decker asked.

"Uhm, yes... He was imagining a dog."

"Captain HM Murdock," the colonel said grimly, but a dark, satisfied gleam shone in his eyes. "I've been suspecting it for a while..."

"I'm sorry, Sir," Kipperman started after an awkward moment of silence, "if we'd known who they were..."

"Ah... I guess, you can't be blamed." Decker sounded lame, and Kipperman suspected that he was quite used to saying those words.

* * *

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

_Murdock Calavicci: Would I be so mean? - - - Well, yes. But see for yourself.  
_

* * *

"They got the fool's prints," BA voiced his worries, when they were finally back in their van, and on the way to yet another house, in Odminton, they had found a clue to at Terrace Lane.

"Well, nothing to do about that at the moment," Hannibal answered. He knew it would be a problem in the future. But right now, they had bigger problems to deal with.

"They'll figure him out!" BA insisted angrily.

"BA..." Hannibal said softly. He knew what BA was doing: babbling. He talked just to keep the silence away, so they wouldn't have to think of what they had found in Terrace Lane, let alone speak of it.

"They won't," Face said.

"What?"

"They won't figure it out. I've... tinkered with Murdock's file a bit. A while back, I've exchanged his prints."

"With whose?" Hannibal asked, pleasantly surprised by the information, yet anticipating trouble. Face must have used somebody's prints, and there might be difficulties arising from that direction.

Surprisingly, Face smiled. "Well," he said, stretching the word. "I had to take what I had at hand..." He wiggled his fingers.

"You..." Hannibal grinned, liking the thought he thought. But then he frowned. "You used **your** prints?"

"Yes..." Face still smiled, if not even a little broader.

"But then... Murdock would pop up, when they're searching your prints. Why doesn't he?"

"Well, let me finish, man!" Face complained good-humouredly. "I didn't **really** use my prints."

Hannibal raised his eyebrows in question. Now he was confused.

Face grinned, revelling in his team mates' confusion. He just loved it when he could astonish them. "Well, I did. Mine, Murdock's, yours... and I just couldn't resist this one: a Miss H. M. Murdoch – Helen Mary, Murdoch spelled with ch, but who cares about such small details?"

Hannibal's eyebrows were still up.

"Helen Mary Murdoch?" Murdock asked with a happy grin, "There's really a lady with that name?"

"Yes, but you shouldn't get all too excited, Murdock. She's a criminal. Prostitution, thievery..." Face rolled his hand, indicating that the list went on.

"Do you mind?" Hannibal reminded Face that he still waited for an answer.

"Uhm... Well, I put the five sets of prints into the computer, merged them, and then exchanged those new prints with Murdock's real ones."

"You... merged?"

"Yes. It's really easy when you know how to do it. You put two different, but similar, pictures into the computer, and the computer merges them into one." Face tried to look cool, but he was too proud of himself.

"You're a **loon**!" Murdock exclaimed, a big smile on his face, before he leaned over to hug his muchacho.

"Two nuts, great," BA muttered with his usual gruffness.

But Hannibal smiled. First, it had been a nice idea Face had had there. And second, at least for the moment, peace and good mood were restored.

* * *

Kipperman finally held that wanted screenshot in his hands. It was in black and white, the face of the kid a little blurry, but unmistakable. Those blond hair, the even features, those big bright eyes, staring directly into the camera... The emotions those eyes held were an accusation to the world. Desperation and surrender were written across the boy's face. Tears in his eyes, but they didn't spill over. Perhaps just not yet.

It hurt Kipperman to just look at that picture. He didn't envy the technician, who had had to make the copy of this, not at all. The technician had seen the full picture, all the nasty details that were surrounding this small face. Kipperman's bowels churned with only the thought of it.

He wondered, why he had been so eager to get this piece of evidence. He had been sure before, even before he'd gotten Brown's - Peck's – real date of birth. Nobody could stage such emotions. Nobody would try to in the first place.

Kipperman thoughtfully wiped his fingers over the face on the photo-paper before he put it into the folder.

It was late, he'd better go home now.

Some days he hated his job.

Today was one of those days.

* * *

Decker flopped down on yet another hotel bed. This damn A-Team had made him travel the country quite a bit, which wouldn't be all that bad if they just finally let him catch them. But it once again looked like a failure. Even the Murdock-lead had turned out a failure. CCTV never showed a clear shot, neither of the Team, nor of the man in their company. The officers at the station couldn't quite remember him. Some said, "yes, that's him", others said, "uhm, I'm not sure", and a thid party just simply said "no". – One would think that cops made better witnesses, but as long as they let normal humans join the police-force...

Lt. Kipperman swore the man on the picture was the man he'd interrogated, but although he was the most reliable witness in this case, he was just one of many. And in combination with the finger prints disaster... As it was, none of the prints secured on the crime scene did fit with the ones in Captain Murdock's file. – Of course, the team could have tampered with them. But why would they only tamper with his, but not their own? Decker could come up with a few answers to this, but no judge would ever acknowledge them.

So the army would have to get a new set of Murdock's prints – once he had the good grace to return to the hospital. He had disappeared once again.

So, on the bottom line, Decker had a big bunch of indicia, but no hard evidence, which would be necessary for a sentence. He was back to square one: no team, no Captain Murdock. Another dead end.

He sighed and turned to his side. He had never been thrilled to get this job. At the beginning he had wondered why the army bothered him of all people. Him, who he was known to be one of the best men the MP had. Okay, so he had known that Lynch had chased the A-Team for over a decade without success, but then, he had also known that Lynch was a moron, who probably wouldn't find his own right foot if asked. Pretty soon, though, the hunt had become frustrating. The A-Team was good, and presumably Lynch wasn't to blame, after all. However, the longer Decker spent on this special case, the less he liked it. He didn't like giving the fool.

He sighed again, and turned to his other side. Maybe he should just give up and retire.

* * *

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

BA pulled up in front of the house in Odminton. The sun had set some twenty minute ago, but at the house, everything was dark, and no car was parked in the driveway.

Hannibal didn't like that. Because it could mean that there was nobody there. No thugs and no Pete either. Which really was the worst case scenario. Maybe they were lucky, and at least Pete was there. That would be at least something. But it would leave the baddies free to roam and kidnap other kids for the same purpose, and that left a very bitter aftertaste. But Hannibal could not help that. For all they knew Pete was inside, and saving Pete was paramount. Therefore they had to get in there. The sooner the better.

Hannibal gave the house a first check-over. It was just another ordinary house in a fairly nice neighbourhood; medium sized houses with medium sized backyards and nicely trimmed front lawns. There were probably families with little children living right next door.

Hannibal turned around in his seat. "I'll be back in a minute. Just checking out the surroundings." Surprisingly none of his team said a thing. They just looked at him. Hannibal opened the door and got off the van. All in all it was a nice neighbourhood, and Hannibal silently wondered how nobody ever noticed a thing. Were they all so indifferent that they didn't mind anything outside their own four walls, or were they just plain stupid? Or, he came up with a third, nicer, explanation, were they too good to imagine such cruelty that they just didn't make the connection? But then, what were they thinking? They had to notice that there was something going on. That there were men with children – but only men. Or did they have woman to cover for them? Still, people had to notice that there was an array of little kids that didn't go to school in the neighbourhood, or to kindergarten. Or even outside to play. People had to notice.

Hannibal had rounded the house once by then, and had found nothing out of the ordinary. Only two small – and dark – basement-windows, and a locked back door, which he had blocked with a garden-chair, just as a precaution.

Hannibal approached the van. Face probably knew how they did it, how they diverted the neighbours' suspicions. But Hannibal would rather cut his own arm off than ask Face. He opened the door and hopped into his seat. "Okay, from all we know, Pete's in there at the moment," he said evenly. He couldn't allow his disgust and fury to show.

"I..." Face started, but didn't go on.

"You don't have to go," Hannibal quickly assured, understanding what Face had wanted to say.

"And I?" Murdock asked in a small voice that held tears.

Hannibal looked at him. Murdock was a sensitive and highly compassionate person, but he usually could contain himself when the situation required it. "Murdock, I need you in there. I know you don't want to go, none of us do. But we have to. I can't go in all by myself. I'd be... Well, I guess I could, but I won't. This is too important to take chances. I want this to be over as quickly as ever possible. So I need you. Face... He probably wouldn't be of much help, so I can as well leave him here." Hannibal looked at Face, checking what effect his words had on him. He looked dismayed, but didn't deny.

"But..." Murdock started again. "But I..."

"End of discussion, Captain. You go in there with me and BA." Hannibal turned to face BA. "And you, Sergeant, reign in your temper in there. I don't need you beating those men to pulp, bastards as they are. Think of the effect you'd have on the child. Pete wouldn't see it as you rescuing him, but as just another atrocity thrown his way. So contain yourself."

BA nodded with an angry grunt; he would do as told.

"Face, I need you to get the door open..." Hannibal waited for Face's confirmatory nod. When he got it, he continued, "then you return to the van and get ready to bring us out of here. And keep an eye on the door, it's their only way out. – Provided they don't climb out of a window." Usually, he wouldn't worry about that. Usually he would rely on the fact that most people didn't even think of climbing out of windows. But this was not usual. They couldn't be too careful in this case. Little children were involved and in danger. "Okay, let's go then. The police may have figured this place out by now, and send their own forces."

* * *

Face led the small procession over to the front door. He tried the handle, finding the door locked. – No surprise, there. He pulled a face, then pushed all thouhts aside. He was here to pick a lock, and that's exactly what he was going to do. He slipped the picks in. A second later he felt them getting a grip, he jolted them and the lock gave a satisfying click, as it snapped open.

"Good job, Face." Hannibal slapped him on the shoulder. Face shot him a reproachful look. Who did Hannibal suddenly think he was? Only because everybody now knew that his early childhood had totally, completely majorly sucked, he was still the same man. He had worked fine all his life. Why would he suddenly not? Admitted, he felt a little shaky inside, but that was inside. On the outside he was as calm as ever.

He turned the knob, opened the door a split and stepped aside to let his team mates enter. Against his conscious will pictures suddenly arose in front of his inner eye. He knew Pete from the pictures Maria had shown them. He was a pretty little boy. And now his damn imagination put the poor boy in all the places and situations he'd been in himself. Face swallowed hard. "Keep it," he muttered to himself as he hastily walked back to the van. "Keep it together..." He slipped into the driver's seat. He couldn't afford to lose it now. Not when Hannibal had already given him the easiest part in this.

* * *

Murdock followed BA down the hallway. God, what wouldn't he give to be with Face at the moment. He wasn't sure he could go through this.

"No, Billy," he whispered, "go back to Face." Billy really shouldn't be here and see what was going on. It was bad enough he'd been in Terrace Lane. He just never listened, going anywhere he wanted, including places that just weren't good for him.

"Shut up, fool," BA retorted in a whisper.

"Billy must not see this," Murdock explained, struggling for normalcy in his voice. "Now go, Billy. Go, or there won't be any more bedtime stories." That seemed to have done the trick. Billy was gone.

"Sh!" BA warned again.

Murdock wisely didn't answer this, but just thought that if the men they were looking for were engaged in what the Team thought they were, then they didn't hear much of anything anyway. He spat out.

Hannibal in front of them stopped. His head turned to the side, he listened for sounds. Complete silence was all they heard. He proceeded on to a door to his right. He pulled his gun before he carefully pushed the handle.

The door swung open, and a dark closet welcomed him. Hannibal didn't bother closing it again, he just went over to the next door. An empty room of undetermined purpose. The next door lead into the kitchen. The fourth door, finally, lead down to the basement. It was only logical that the bastards would use the basement in this house as well. A theory very much supported by the fact that there was glass-wool nailed to the other side of the door.

So if there ever were any visitors, they could walk around the rest of the house all they liked, they would not find – or hear – anything suspicious.

Murdock pulled his own gun now. Times to feel like a little boy were definitely over. He'd better behave like a grown man now... like a soldier, a fighter.

Hannibal watched his step carefully. No good if he announced their presence by a creaking stair. BA followed as carefully, and Murdock... hesitated. He did not want to go down there, no, no, he didn't, he really didn't.

Training got the better of him, and he followed Hannibal and BA.

A muffled voice could be heard downstairs. When a door was opened, the voice became clear and intelligible. "... anymore. So just do what you like."

"I don't **like** it, Gary," another, rather bored, voice answered. "It's a necessity."

"Yeah whatever," Gary answered. By the sound of it, he wasn't buying a word of what the other one said.

A moment later, the first man and a child, Pete, stepped into their line of vision.

"Not a sound," Hannibal warned softly, pointing his gun straight at the man's heart. "Pete, your mommy sent us to get you home. Why don't you come over to me?"

"Mo... Mommy?" Pete had trouble speaking through his tears, but the mentioning of his mother did seem to have a tremendously calming effect.

"That's right, champ," BA said in his gentlest voice, hiding his own gun as best as he could as he knelt down. "Come 'ere." He reached out, and, like all children, Pete trusted him without a second glance. He hesitantly stepped away from his captor and walked in slow, measured steps until he reached the staircase. Once there, he practically flew into BA's arms. BA stood up, his left arm protectively wrapped around the boy, and lifted his right arm to point his gun at the man in front of him.

"Hey Griz!" Gary shouted, "everything alright there?"

Hannibal waved at the man, now identified as Griz, to come nearer. Griz remained where he was, until Hannibal raised his gun a bit and he was looking right into the barrel of it.

"Griz?!" Gary sounded a lot nearer now, and lot more alert.

"Look, can't we make a deal or something?" Griz asked.

"No deals," BA rumbled.

"Holy SHIT!" Gary had come to investigate on Griz, and found himself facing his partner being held in check by Hannibal with his Magnum.

"Stop right there!" Hannibal shouted.

Of course, Gary did no such thing. He turned on his heels and ran off. There was no other exit, but there seemed to be lots of rooms to hide in... or keep weapons in. "BA, get Pete out of here, Murdock, keep an eye on Griz." Hannibal had hardly finished his orders when he took off after Gary.

Murdock watched Hannibal leave, and everything turned cold around him. He saw BA coming up the steps with Pete securely in his arms, and he saw Griz charging after him at almost impossible speed. Murdock raised his arm, pointing his gun at Griz, trying to say something, make the man stop, but his throat was too tight to even breathe properly, and his hand was shaking.

BA looked surprised for just a second, then turned around, and was practically face to face with Griz. Man, but he really had been fast. "Murdock, get him out," BA quipped, holding Pete a bit to the side, so Murdock could take him from his arm.

Murdock concentrated on breathing and calming down his shaking hands. When he was sure he wouldn't drop the boy, he reached out for Pete and gently pulled him from BA's hold. He pressed him to his chest, probably harder than he should, but Pete didn't seem to mind, he wrapped his arms around Murdock's neck. That was a small plus: Pete seemed to feel safe with him.

BA, meanwhile pressed the barrel of his gun against Griz' chest. "You move, sucka, you're dead," he said. He didn't need to add that he was serious.

Murdock still stood with Pete in his arms, watching the scene. Only slowly he came out of his sick tranquillity. "Out," he ordered himself in an unstable voice.

"Out," Pete repeated in his high children's voice.

Murdock nodded, turned and slowly climbed the stairs. He walked down the hallway, through the front door and out, over to the van. "It's alright," he muttered underway, "I'll bring you back to your Mommy. Nobody's gonna hurt you no more... It's alright."

Face jumped out of the van, and met him halfway between house and van. He reached out to take Pete, but Pete protested, he clung to Murdock, and started to cry again. Maybe he just didn't want to be handed around like he was a parcel or something; Murdock could relate to that.

"Okay," Face said, aborting his actions immediately. "No need to cry, Pete." He patted the boy's back once, before he turned to Murdock. "Are BA and Hannibal doing alright in there?"

"I... I don't... know..." Murdock embraced Pete a little harder, squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. "I... I think so."

" _Think so_ is not good enough," Face answered, pulled his gun and headed for the house.

"Face, what are you doing?!"

"What do you think I'm doing?" Face asked back. "They may need help. You can't help, so I have to." That said, Face was gone.

"You... you said you bring me to my Mommy, where's my Mommy?" Pete asked, new ters forming in his eyes.

"She's not here, she's at home," Murdock answered, gently rubbing Pete's back.

"I want my Mommy!"

"I know, just a little time, ok? Just a little while till we –"

"Now!" Pete insisted in a whine that threatened to become a full scale cry.

"Shh, in a minute, Pete." Murdock said. "Tell you what, we go over to my car and call your Mommy... Would you like that?"

"Yes," Pete whispered, wiping his cheeks dry.

"Then come on, champ." Murdock climbed into the van and picked up the phone. His fingers still shook a little, as he punched in Maria's phone number, but other than that he had himself back under control.

* * *

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

_**Hannah** : The two stories could be strung together, if you really wanted to. They are not in my mind, but feel free to combine "Michael 7" and "San Diego Diary" in yours. ;)_

 _Also, worries have been expressed about the combination of Face, a gun, and a couple of creeps..._

* * *

Face had no trouble finding the place, he only had to follow the sounds. When he walked downstairs he could see BA's back. He was just finishing tying up one of the baddies. BA turned around and stared at Face. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm helping out, any objections?"

BA didn't answer. He just looked.

"Where's Hannibal, how many are there?" Face asked on.

"Just two it seems. Hannibal's taking care of the other one," BA answered.

"What direction?" Face asked.

"You just stay here and watch him," BA pointed at the man in front of him , then jogged off.

Face understood exactly what BA was doing. BA thought that he was not safe around the other guy. BA feared that he might lose his cool and do something really drastic, like killing the bastard. Face just wasn't sure whether to like this or not. A part of him was relieved, but another part of him was angry. He didn't need to be protected. He had managed on his own even when he was a kid, he sure as hell was able to manage now.

Face clenched his jaw. He had lapsed in the morning, yes, but that was only because he had stumbled into it unprepared. Now he was prepared. Now he knew what it all was about. Now he knew what to expect. And now he knew how to not let it get to him.

"Look, pal..." the man before Face started.

"Shut up."

"I... I just thought... You and I, we could get to an agreement..."

"Just what in hell makes you think that?" Face asked incredulous, raising his eyebrows.

"You look like a guy who..."

Face interrupted the man by pressing the barrel of his gun against his forehead. "Just give me a reason," he threatened in a soft voice.

"Okay, okay," the man soothed immediately.

"Face!" Hannibal's voice announced his arrival seconds before he rounded the corner, marching a guy in front of him at gun-point.

"Hannibal..."

"What are you doing here?!" Hannibal didn't appear to be all that happy.

"Funny how everybody keeps asking me that."

"I asked you a question, Lieutenant!"

Face was about to answer when BA appeared, one kid on each arm. One was a girl of about seven, the other a boy of about four. Both looked in pretty bad shape, but at least the girl had one arm around BA's neck, holding on, and resting her head on his shoulder. The boy just sat on BA's arm, staring into the distance like he didn't care much what was happening around him; or with him.

Face knew that most probably he really didn't care.

Hannibal quickly turned around, following Face's look. "We found them in a room back there," he explained.

"Pete didn't want to let go of Murdock," Face said, instead of replying to what Hannibal had just said. He simply had no idea what else to say. Should he tell Hannibal that he should have known? That he felt like an idiot and failure, because he should have known there probably were other kids besides Pete, but hadn't thought of it? "Somebody had to come down to help you," Face continued, ignoring his scornful thoughts. "And Murdock hardly could with the boy clinging to him. So I came."

Hannibal acknowledged Face's reply with a nod. "Are you alright?" he asked after a second.

Anger was flaring up inside Face again. "Do I look alright? Yes I do," he snapped. "So I guess I am. Can we get this filth dumped, then?"

* * *

Hannibal had to admit that Face did indeed seem okay. And, thinking about it, why shouldn't he? He had lived with this burden for all of his life, and had been okay... functioning... relatively in order. This whole ordeal was having an effect on him, no question. All Hannibal had to do to know that was remember the morning. He could still see Face turning white. He could still see him dash from the room and hear him retch.

He could still see the little boy's face on the TV screen. He had never seen a picture on which Face was younger than fifteen, nonetheless, this face was unmistakable. "Stop," he had demanded. Murdock had frantically punched on the buttons, until the screen had finally turned a blissful black. Face had come back a moment after that, apologising for not having a better grip on himself.

"You comin', Hannibal?" BA asked.

"Yeah, sure..." Hannibal pushed his dark rumination aside and concentrated on the task at hand: get the thugs to the police, and the kids back to their families. He tightened his hold on Gary, and led him upstairs.

Outside at the van he found that Pete had calmed down considerably. Hannibal looked at Murdock, asking for an explanation.

"Petey here's been talking to his Mommy." Murdock said proudly, like the boy had just passed an important test, and Pete nodded just as proudly.

Hannibal gave Gary a good push. "Somebody tie up this scum here," he ordered.

Not surprisingly, Face stepped forward to do it. Hannibal watched him closely as he worked. He was maybe a little rough on the man, but nothing else was out of the ordinary. – And they were all a bit rougher than usual with these guys.

Unfortunately, by ordering Gary to be tied up, Hannibal had drawn Pete's attention to the man, and the boy broke into fresh tears. Murdock hugged him tightly and tried to convince him that the two men were no longer dangerous. "My friends got them, you see?"

"Like cops?" Pete squeaked doubtfully.

"Exactly like cops... No, even better than cops."

"They won't let them get me?" Pete asked, his voice a little surer.

"Never, Petey, just never."

"You gonna take me to Mommy now?"

"I don't know. Am I, Hannibal?"

"Actually, I wanted Face to..." Hannibal started.

"I'm **fine** , Hannibal!" Face interrupted angrily, stopping in his work long enough to glare at him.

"Are you?" Pete asked Murdock again, pulling on his shirt.

"Apparently, Pete wants to go with Murdock anyway," Face said.

Hannibal resisted the urge to rub his eyes. "We have to change our plans anyway," Hannibal said when Face deposited Gary next to Griz. Both men had their arms tied behind their backs now, and their ankles tied together, so they couldn't run.

"Things have changed," Hannibal continued. "I have counted only with Pete, that would have been easy. Take him to his Mom, then disappear into the sunset... But now we have the police and two more kids to deal with. BA, you got their names?"

BA raised his one arm a bit, presenting the girl. "This is Bethany Grammers, she's eight, knows her address and all." BA gave her a proud smile, and Bethany shyly smiled back. "He," BA raised the boy, "unfortunately isn't talking yet. But we'll get there, won't we, champ? Gonna find your Mommy and Daddy?"

The boy heaved a sigh, but otherwise remained unresponsive.

"Bethany says they called him Howie," BA continued softly. "But..."

But they had dubbed Face Michael, so that didn't mean much.

"If the original plan is out the window, what do we do now?" Face asked.

"You, scum," Hannibal addressed the two tied up men. "Where's your car?" He wasn't even sure they had a car round here, but if he asked them whether they had one, he at the same time gave them the easy excuse to just say no. Therefore he asked as if he knew they had a car.

"You think we tell you?" Gary asked coldly.

"What do I get if I tell you?" Griz asked. "Do you let me go, if I tell you?"

Hannibal couldn't believe the stupidity of this man. Did he really think there was any kind of bargain for him? Hannibal stepped up to Griz, closer than he was comfortable with such a rat, but he had to be close to give his words the wanted effect. "I'll tell you what you get," he hissed into Griz' face. "You'll get me not beating the living daylights out of you. That's what you get. Now, which one is it?"

Griz looked satisfyingly frightened and nodded to his right. "That blue Pontiac..."

Hannibal nodded. "The keys are...?"

"In my pocket," Griz answered, indicating his right-hand pants-pocket.

"Nah, leave it." Hannibal shook his head. "BA, you're gonna have to hotwire the car."

BA nodded, still hugging the two kids to his side.

"Face, you hotwire the Pontiac," Hannibal started to tick off the points of his plan. "I'll drive, the scum will be in the back..." Hannibal let his eyes jump between his men. One of them would have to guard the rats while he was driving. Hannibal would have preferred BA, but BA had to look after the kids, especially "Howie", so he was out. His next choice would have been Murdock, but as it seemed, Pete still didn't want to let go of him, so Murdock was out as well. Left him with Face. Okay, Face had worked fine all along, Hannibal reminded himself. Face would work fine now as well.

"Face, you come along as guard. BA, Murdock, you take the kids. Get them..." Yeah, get them where exactly? Hannibal wondered. The silent boy was not much of a question. He'd have to go to a police-station, no other option. But Pete and Bethany? They were, young as they were, important witnesses, so they should go to the police, too. But wouldn't it be cruel to keep them from their parents any longer than was necessary? But wouldn't the police call the parents first thing anyway, dealing with all the rest later? Hannibal made his decision. "Get them to just any police-station. They'll find them all on their missing persons list..."

"Pete as well?" Murdock asked in a whiny voice.

"Yes, Pete as well."

"But why not home?" Murdock asked wearily. "Petey wants to go home."

"The police will have Maria covered, since they know about her. Pete has been talking to her on the phone already, so he should be okay." Hannibal saw Murdock's dismay with the decision, but ignored it for the moment. Later he had time to deal with Murdock, but not now. "Okay, that's the plan. We'll be meeting again at Face's place."

"Why is it, we always meet at my place?" Face complained.

"Because you always have the nicest, that's why" Hannibal answered, a small smile coming to his lips. Yes, Face would work fine. Work fine and be fine. Hannibal watched him head over to the Pontiac.

He turned to watch the other half of his team. BA climbed into the back of the van, and Hannibal wasn't sure why that surprised him at all. Of course he would stay with the kids. It was just odd seeing him in the back of the van instead of the driver's seat. Pete was reluctantly letting go of Murdock, and Murdock seemed to be just as reluctant to let go of him. Not good, Hannibal thought, Murdock shouldn't use the kid to anchor himself, that was abusive on a very substantial level.

The Pontiac's motor sprang to life, and Hannibal took his attention off BA and the van and back on the scum. He hustled them over to the Pontiac, where he shoved them onto the backseat. "Changed my mind, Face. You're gonna drive."

This time Face did not argue, but just slipped into the driver's seat.

* * *

Kipperman grumpily returned to his office. He had been at home for dinner, but then, to his wife's great dismay, Pearsh had called, telling him that they had found something, a clue, troops were already on their way.

Kipperman banged the door shut behind him. He probably should call this Decker-guy. If they had a clue on the child-porn-ring-runners, they had a clue on the boy this team was after. And if the police had found this clue at Terrace Lane, then the team probably had found it as well. Which meant that they were probably there.

Kipperman picked up the phone, dialled the number of the hotel where Decker had said he'd stay the night.

"Yes!" Decker barked into the phone.

"Colonel Decker?"

"Yes... who is it?"

"Lieutenant Kipperman. We may have a clue on this team you're after."

"Where?!" Kipperman could practically see how Decker jumped up, reaching for his... gun, or car-keys, or just something. More likely his gun.

"Odminton, that's a little out of –"

"I know where it is," Decker interrupted. "I checked the map on my way here." And with this he disconnected.

"Very well," Kipperman muttered to himself, putting the phone down. "Next time the A-Team drops into my lap, see if I call you, asshole." He thought that saying good-bye before ending a conversation was minimum politeness. Not to speak of a thank you in this case.

After calling the colonel, there was not much for Kipperman to do but wait for the troops to bring in whoever or whatever they found. He got himself a cup of coffee, shifted the piles of paper on his desk from one side to the other, and was actually glad when his phone rang. "Yeah?"

"Lieutenant Kipperman?" A polite, male voice asked him.

"Well, you called me, you should know. Who's there?" Kipperman replied angrily. He hated people playing silly games and thinking they were funny.

"If you must know, I'm a delivery man..."

"So? Hand in what you have to deliver at the front desk." Kipperman hung up.

The phone rang again.

"Yeah?" he snapped.

"I was not quite finished. Really, where are your manners?"

Involuntarily, Kipperman had to chuckle. Hadn't he complained about minimum politeness himself not 15 minutes earlier?

"I can't deliver my cargo at the front desk," the man spoke on. "You see, I'd love to, but if you'd be so kind and take a look from your window..."

Kipperman hated himself for it, but his curiosity was piqued, so he got up and looked down. There was a phone-booth on the other side of the street, so whoever was calling would be calling from there.

His jaw dropped.

There, in the booth, stood Miller... No, Smith was his real name. He stood there, and waved at him.

"Now, don't rush and send your forces outside before you know what I got for you." Smith pointed at a car, a Pontiac, if Kipperman was not mistaken. Peck stood beside it, looking inside.

"See the car?" Smith asked.

"Yes."

"Inside you'll find two pieces of garbage, called Griz and Gary."

Whereas Smith had sounded jauntily throughout the previous conversation, he now sounded – and looked, if Kipperman could judge that from the distance – disgusted.

"They are two of the ones who run the ring. I have reason to believe that there's at least one more man involved. If you want any more information, I suggest you ask Griz – he's the gagged one. For the prospect of a deal, he'll tell you anything. With my best regards." Smith saluted up at Kipperman, then hung up.

Kipperman remained at the window, saw Smith and Peck run like hell. The car Smith had pointed at was jostling. Somebody inside moved, maybe trying to get to the front seat and behind the wheel.

Kipperman quickly called the front desk, telling the officer on duty to check out that Pontiac on the other side of the street, but not alone. Next he intended to get a radio-connection with Decker to tell him of the new development, but then he just dropped into his seat with a broad, gleeful grin.

No, he would not call the colonel. Maybe he would have if it were just Smith. But Peck... The smile slipped from his face. He took the thin file on the A-Team Hearsh had brought earlier this day. He flipped it open. Peck's face. Kipperman took the screenshot from the file on the porn-ring. Michael Seven's face. One was smiling, the other breaking apart. And yet they resembled each other so much, it was almost spooky.

Kipperman put the photos back into their respective folders.

He looked at Smith's photo.

No, he wouldn't have called even if it were just Smith. They were not bad people. They didn't belong in prison.

Kipperman had read the reason why the MP wanted them. Robbed the bank of Hanoi - according to Smith, under orders.

After having met the man, Kipperman believed him.

* * *

TBC

 _Sorry if you expected Face to fall to pieces ... but I don't think he's that kind of man. He has built his life around the fact that he's been through hell as a young boy, and he came out stronger for it._


	10. Chapter 10

_Well now, let's round this story up, before I disappear to Scotland for a week, shall we?  
_

* * *

BA watched from the van's open side door how Bethany walked up the steps to the police-station, leading one boy on each hand. She was a very brave girl. Just having escaped a horrible situation herself, she had the strength to care and look out for her two little companions. It might not look like much, walking thirty yards to a police station. But with what the girl had gone through, every single step was an achievement.

BA was proud of her. She had briefly talked to her parents on the phone while they were on the way, but it had hardly been enough to really calm her down and restore her belief that things were indeed going to work out fine.

"Go, Murdock," BA said softly, his heart heavy with grief and sympathy and sadness and love.

He pulled the door shut, while Murdock slowly accelerated.

They were both quiet for a long while. Murdock heading for the highway, and BA leaning back in Face's usual seat.

BA's thoughts roamed from Bethany to Pete to the boy to Face back to Pete to Bethany the boy Face Pete Murdock...

Murdock was painfully quiet, BA realised with a sting to his heart. Murdock quiet was even more unnerving than Murdock talkative... Maybe unnerving wasn't naming it correctly, BA thought. Unsettling, yes, that's what it was. Murdock being all chitty-chatty meant that he was relatively fine, as fine as the Fool could be anyway. But when he was all quiet and brooding...

"Pull over there, I wanna drive," BA said.

Murdock obediently pulled to the side and slipped into Hannibal's seat.

A minute later BA filtered back into the light traffic.

"You think they're alright?" Murdock suddenly asked in a very subdued voice.

"Bethany and the boys?" BA asked, although, who else could Murdock mean?

"Yeah... Pete and Wilbur..."

"Wilbur?" BA's eyebrows shot up. "You don't know his name's Wilbur!"

"No, but I have to call him something, don't I?" Murdock countered defensively. "And it's certainly better than calling him Howie - or 'the boy', like you do."

"Just don't go and give him names that aren't his," BA grumbled angrily, although he actually agreed with Murdock there. Wilbur was indeed the better option out of the three. But Murdock was in the early stages of losing himself, and the best way to prevent that was to ground him, by force if necessary.

Murdock didn't say anything more for a while, probably sensing that there was trouble heading his way if he did. After a while he just repeated his question. "Do you think they're ok?"

"Yeah," BA simply answered.

"You think they're with their parents?"

"I'm sure."

"Maria surely hadn't made it yet."

"I'm sure they called her and let Pete talk with her some more."

"You think?"

"Yeah."

Another long silence in the van. BA was not sure what to think of it. Did it mean that he had failed, and Murdock was slipping, or had he succeeded, and Murdock was busy regaining his self control?

"BA?"

"Yeah?"

"You..." Murdock didn't go on, just sighed deeply.

"What is it, man?" BA stepped off the gas.

"Face," Murdock said after a minute.

"I'm not sure we should discuss him without him present," BA cautioned. Inwardly he kicked himself. He should have known that Face was the source of Murdock's destabilisation. He was wildly compassionate, so learning that one of his closest friends had suffered so... even if it had been thirty years ago...

"Yeah, no... I mean... Face..."

BA pulled over to the side and turned to look at Murdock. "Listen, Murdock. I still think we shouldn't talk about him while he's not here, just this much: It makes me furious. I've always known something's really wrong with him, but... this..." BA didn't know how to go on without damaging something. He could express his anger only physically, that's always been his problem. But if there was one thing Murdock didn't need right now, it was violence happening right next to him, so BA kept his mouth shut and his fists in check.

"He seems to deal so fine with it," Murdock said softly. "I mean... this morning he was a off, but in the evening... I mean, I lost it, and he went in in my place."

"If that's what's troubling you, man, then quit it right there. We've always taken over if one of us was not quite capable," BA retorted. Really, to get worked up over something like that! Didn't Murdock know that that's how they worked? Stepping in for each other?

Murdock forcefully pushing him came as a complete surprise. "But don't you understand?!" he shouted.

"What? NO!" Seriously, what was Murdock's problem? That he had messed up today, or finding out that Face had been abused? BA honestly did not know.

"How can Face when... did you know how many tapes there were of him? It started in '53, he's been only three years old back then! And they ended only in '55, that's..." Murdock looked at BA with big, accusing eyes. "That's two years, BA! Two years they've been doing I don't know what to him, and he's..." He didn't finish.

"And who's touched you?" BA asked softly, the realisation dropping on him like a ton of bricks.

Murdock blinked a couple of times before he answered. "My aunt Harriet." Curiously, he didn't seem at all surprised that BA had guessed. "She stayed with us for a couple months. She... I mean it didn't even hurt or anything, it was never anything drastic like..."

... like what Face had endured.

"It was just so... so... _wrong_. I knew it had to be wrong because of the way she went about it. I didn't like her before, and I surely didn't like her afterwards. I wished she'd get run over by a truck or something." There was rarely heard hate in his voice.

BA reached out to rub Murdock's shoulder. "If it helps you any, I don't think Face deals any better with it than you do. Just differently. Maybe not at all, I don't know. W´hat I do know is: We're all different. People deal with things in different ways. You're doing fine, Murdock. Just fine."

Murdock sniffed, then rubbed his hands over his eyes. "I like that, you know?" he asked, his voice heavy, but more alive, more like himself.

"What?"

"You calling me Murdock. I like it when you do that." Murdock managed a teary smile.

"It's your name, Fool," BA joked gently.

"Yeah..."

"Good to go?"

"Yeah. Hit the road, Jack."

* * *

E N D


End file.
